The Ships of Air (The Fall of Ile-Rein) (4 page)

Halian stepped forward, took the handle and applied his shoulder to the fine-grained but light wooden door. Something cracked in the jamb and it swung obligingly open. It was dark inside and smelled dusty, unused. Tremaine stepped in, fumbling for the wall switches.

Behind her, Dyani whispered like a litany, “The lights aren’t curses, they just look like it.”

“It’s all right,” Ilias told her, managing to sound as if he believed it. “Really.”

“Are there curses here?” somebody asked Giliead.

He hesitated an instant too long. “No.”

Tremaine found two call buttons for the stewards before finally pushing the button for the lights. As the lamps flickered to life she saw she had struck gold. The lights were milky crystal lozenges set into cherrywood-veneered walls and the floor had a deep tawny carpet. If Giliead could sense spells it might be the concealment wards protecting the ship from the Gardier; or the staterooms in this section might have been warded against thieves at the commercial liner’s commission. If they had, nothing had happened when the door was forced open. She walked through a small foyer to a sitting room with gold-upholstered chairs and two couches. The built-in writing desk, the silk pillows and the rich red drapes concealing the portholes in the far wall were all meant to make it look like the best hotel in Vienne rather than a ship’s cabin.

The Syprians followed her with subdued murmurs of admiration at the furnishings. Gyan dropped down on one of the couches, clutching his head and groaning. Halian turned and in a grim tone that reminded Tremaine that he had raised at least two children, said, “None of you better break anything, I’m saying that right now.”

Breathing space immediately formed around a delicate little marquetry table.

Muttering, “There’s got to be beds somewhere,” Tremaine shouldered her way through and fumbled at the latch of a sliding door in the other wall. She pushed it open to reveal a dining room with a fine wood table, more upholstered chairs, another built-in desk and chest of drawers, and another couch.

“Is it all like this?” Dyani asked in an awed whisper. Tremaine glanced back at her and saw the girl seemed to be over her fright. She looked more intrigued than afraid now. Ilias hadn’t liked the ship much either, until he had seen some of the more richly decorated public rooms. The Syprians used a lot of color in the painted walls and floor mosaics of their own homes, and the rich fabric and decoration must seem comfortable and familiar to them, unlike the starkness of the Gardier base.

“Normally they charge a lot of money to stay here,” Tremaine told her, stepping into the dining room. She knew there were even better suites available, forward on the deck above the Promenade, just below where the captain and the chief engineer had their quarters. Those were the ones meant for members of the royal family.

Pressing the switches for the lights as she went, Tremaine found two more unobtrusive panel doors that led into equally lavish bedrooms, with two double beds each and accompanying vanities and chests of drawers in the same cherrywood. There was also a smaller plainer bedroom that might be the maid’s quarters though it was probably better than any of the Third Class rooms, and a large bathroom with gleaming taps and walls that looked like alabaster but probably weren’t. She was momentarily stymied by the fact that all the beds had been stripped to the mattress covers; going off in search of the laundry, wherever it was in the bowels of the ship, was not high on her list of what to do next. But by opening all the doors and drawers she discovered a cabinet in the maid’s room with neatly folded linens, towels and silk bedcovers, all in red or gold to match the curtains and carpets. They weren’t musty because the seals on the cabinet doors were nearly airtight, and as she piled them into Dyani’s arms the faint faded scent of lavender laundry soap puffed up from the folds. It was odd; the people who had carefully cleaned up after this suite’s occupants on the ship’s last voyage had probably never imagined that the next time she left port would be to carry refugees away from a devastated Ile-Rien.

In the sitting room everyone was finally starting to settle down. Ilias had shown the others how to get hot water out of the bathroom taps and Giliead was in there tending Gyan’s head wound; Arites, deprived of paper and writing implements by the Gardier, was walking around muttering to himself, probably trying to memorize details; some of the men had just curled up in corners and gone to sleep. Tremaine found herself standing in front of the mural on the dining room wall, a surrealist mix of curves and angles. One of the men whose name she thought was Kias—big, olive-skinned, with frizzy dark hair falling past his shoulders—asked, “What is that supposed to be?”

“I don’t know,” Tremaine replied honestly. Her last dose of strong coffee had worn off far too long ago and the world felt distant and strange. The surrealist mural didn’t help that sensation.

There was a knock at the door and several people flinched. “What now?” Tremaine grumbled and went to answer it.

Ilias followed her into the foyer, saying under his breath, “Did you steal this room too?”

Ilias had maintained that Tremaine’s method of getting the
Ravenna
diverted to the Institute’s use was stealing; that he was technically correct just made it worse. “How very helpful.” Tremaine glared at him, then opened the door.

It was an older woman, slender, her graying dark hair neatly arranged and her face bare of cosmetics. She wore a plain but well-tailored blue-gray wool suit. Tremaine thought she might be one of the Institute’s secretaries or administrators but didn’t recognize her. The woman lifted her brows and said calmly, “Oh, it must be Miss Valiarde from the Viller Institute. They said you’d be somewhere with all these young men.” She smiled admiringly at Ilias, who was leaning against the other wall, displaying more bare chest and arms than one usually got to see in Ile-Rien since the ballet, the opera and the more interesting demimonde theaters and dining establishments had shut down for the duration. He smiled engagingly back at her. Tremaine suspected the Syprians were going to prove popular, at least among the Rienish on board. “We’re just trying to keep track of everyone,” the woman explained, “so we can get all these poor people into rooms. I’ll note down that you’re in charge of this suite….” She wrote rapidly on the clipboard she carried.

Gratified as she was to actually be recognized, Tremaine had a sudden qualm at being “in charge” of anything at the moment. “What do I need to do?” she asked, shifting to lean casually against the door and cover the broken lock with her body.

“Just make sure the dead-lights—the metal covers over the portholes—stay fixed in place. There’s plenty of freshwater for drinking but do have everyone use the saltwater taps for bathing. And here.” She pulled one of the ship’s map booklets from her pocket and showed Tremaine two areas marked in pen. “If anyone needs medical attention, Dr. Divies is set up in the ship’s hospital with the army surgeon, and some volunteers are going to try to serve a hot meal in the First Class Dining Room in a few hours.”

Tremaine took the booklet, finding herself smiling. “They’re ambitious.”

The woman caught her meaning and smiled back. “Yes, if there’s any delay, it’ll be because they’ve mislaid themselves in those huge kitchens.” She checked her notes again. “Also, try to conserve the linens as much as possible. Getting the laundry operational is rather low priority at the moment. Oh”—the woman tucked her clipboard under her arm and extended a hand—“I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. I’m Lady Aviler.”

Tremaine automatically shook the extended hand. The expensive but tastefully plain just-what-one-should-wear-to-an-evacuation clothing, the confident beau monde manner combined with the polite leer at Ilias all made sense; she was a member of Ile-Rien’s nobility. The Aviler family had been highly placed in the Ministry as long as the Fontainons had been on the throne. She couldn’t remember if it was Lady Aviler’s son or husband or brother who had been minister in charge of the War Appropriations Committee. How had the woman ended up on the ship? Had she been in the group picked up at Chaire? And more importantly, did she know the orders Tremaine had brought to transfer the
Ravenna
to Colonel Averi and the Institute were forged? “This is Ilias,” she managed, hoping to distract her.

Lady Aviler gave him a pleasant nod and a warm smile. “How very nice.”

As Lady Aviler continued briskly up the corridor, Ilias leaned out to watch her. “Get back in here,” Tremaine snapped, anxious to shut the door again. She was paranoid about her trick with the orders being uncovered. Not that it had been terribly well covered in the first place, but she hadn’t had any time.
And really,
she told herself,
at this point there isn’t much they could do about it.
Except, of course, throw her in the brig with Ixion and the Gardier. But the main thing was that it would be embarrassing and she knew it would tell too many people more about how her mind worked than was good for anybody, especially her.

Ilias stepped back in, giving her a wry look. “She was nice.”

Tremaine grimly shut the door, heading back into the sitting room. “Sure she was.”

Gyan was back out in the main room again, his head wound tended, resisting Halian’s attempts to make him sit down. He demanded, “Do we know where we’re headed, if the Gardier are still out there?”

Gardier. Oh, damn.
Tremaine rubbed her forehead, trying to massage away the pounding headache. She needed to know what was going on out there too. “I’ll go up and find out.” She started for the door again.

Giliead stopped her, taking her by the shoulders and steering her back into the room. “No, you’ve done enough. You’re about to fall down.”

“I am not,” Tremaine protested, stumbling.

“Yes, you are.” Ilias took over, taking her arm and hauling her back through the dining room. Kias was still staring at the mural. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Don’t ask hard questions.” Tremaine rubbed her eyes. She wanted to say that she had to get back up to where the decisions were being made. The Viller Institute’s money and authority meant nothing now, and she had only a toehold with the people who were running things. If she didn’t hold on to it, she would lose even that.

Ilias steered her into the maid’s room, and Tremaine gave in and collapsed on one of the narrow beds. The mattress was still bare but it was wonderfully comfortable. She was asleep in moments.

I
lias looked around for a blanket and Dyani handed him one out of the cupboard. She paused to run her hand over the dark red fabric, saying, “All the dyes match. And the weaving is so tight. How do they do that?”

“You should have seen their city,” Ilias told her, covering Tremaine with the blanket. Her tousled hair and the shadows under her eyes made her look vulnerable and soft. When awake she was anything but, no matter what she seemed to think of herself. “And that was after the war with the Gardier.”

Dyani took a deep breath, looking down at Tremaine worriedly. “These people are so powerful. If they can’t fight the Gardier with ships like these, how can we?”

Good question
, Ilias thought grimly, but he squeezed her arm, and said, “We’ll think of something.”

Arites ducked his head in to whisper, “Halian wants to talk to you.”

Ilias grunted an acknowledgment, having an idea of what Halian wanted. He stepped out past him. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Good, see.” Arites pulled the charred torn fabric of his shirt apart so Ilias could see the little round wound. “The wizard weapon sent a bolt right through me—there’s a hole just like this on my back where it came out, but Gerard made the bleeding stop and a little later I saw the hole had closed up, like this.”

Arites sounded rather pleased and enthusiastic about the whole thing, but then as far as Ilias could tell he had been born open-minded. Ilias absently flexed the arm he had broken in the wreck of the
Swift
. “Yes, they’re good at that.” The problem was, if everyone didn’t keep quiet about it when they got back to Cineth, Arites might end up sentenced to a curse mark.

Ilias returned to the main room, seeing everyone was settled in the beds or collapsed in the padded chairs that looked almost as comfortable. Thunder rolled outside, distant and ominous; he could hear the wind trying to bore into the heavy metal hull, but not a hint of a draft came through. There was only the familiar sway of the deck underfoot to tell him he was on a ship.

He looked for Giliead and Halian and after a moment heard their voices out in the hall. He found them just outside the door, leaning against the dark wood walls of the little vestibule. The wizards lights out here, like those inside, were set back into the ceiling behind mist-colored glass ovals so they weren’t harsh and bright. There was a carpet on this floor too, a gold-and-brown one with a pattern that dazzled the eye as it stretched the length of the corridor as far as Ilias could see, which was a pretty damn long way. By ducking his head a little he could tell it curved upward as it grew smaller with distance, until it vanished into shadow. He could hear voices speaking Rienish somewhere down there and saw a few men come out of a door, look around in confusion, then retreat.

Giliead saw he was looking at the curve in the floor and said ruefully, “It’s hard to believe.”

Ilias nodded, knowing what he meant. A building this large, especially constructed of metal, would have been enough of an amazement; that this was a living ship was almost incomprehensible.

Leaning against the opposite wall, Halian said in a low voice, “So? Can we trust these people? And I don’t mean our friends, I mean the ones who give them their orders.”

So Ilias was right, and it was time for this conversation. He glanced at Giliead, who just looked thoughtful. Ilias leaned in the doorframe next to him and said slowly, “Everything’s as they said. I saw their city. There were places that had been torn apart and burned to the ground by the Gardier. The man who took Ixion away with Gerard is another wizard.” Ilias held out his arm, showing them the faded bruises. “When the
Swift
sank I broke this, and he healed it.”